


I Want You, I'll Color Me Blue

by macwritesthings



Series: What We Both Need [7]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bonding ceremony, Dom/sub, Dominant Armie, M/M, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Submissive Timothée, overuse of the term brat as a term of endearment, physical assault, universe-compliant rules and language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2019-08-25 15:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16663012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macwritesthings/pseuds/macwritesthings
Summary: But he wasn’t worried about having Timmy in his life permanently, not when he fit so well, not when he filled voids Armie hadn’t even been aware had been present. HeknewTimmy, and Timmy knew him, and everything else, he thought, pressing an absent kiss to Timmy’s curls before closing his eyes, everything else was just extra.





	1. I'm Green To Go

**Author's Note:**

> HERE WE GO!! BONDING CEREMONIES!! GRETA AND SAOIRSE!! FRIENDSHIP!! ANGST!! 
> 
> Thank you to the chalet-met for their unending support and love. Thank you to all of YOU for your comments, your love, your patience, your feedback, and your enthusiasm.

_Armie_

Once everything was official, announced, time seemed to move too quickly. He knew, of course, that they’d always been limited on time, but it had at least seemed to be passing at a normal speed. But now, with two weeks to go, everything seemed to be in hyperdrive. He was busy with their annual end-of-year meetings, Timmy was often holed up in his studio finalizing designs or hunched over the work desk he’d brought from his mother’s house to Armie’s, a temporary work space until the studio Armie was building for him was finished.

That was another thing, he thought, climbing the stairs of the penthouse late one night, heading to the third floor, the storage space he’d begun renovations on the day that Timmy agreed to be bonded to him. He paused at the door, flicking on the harsh work lights, noting the walls covered in tarps, the floor covered by them as well, eyes canting upwards to study the skylights that had been installed. The contractor had thought he was crazy, asking to install skylights during winter, but Armie had been insistent. Timmy’s studio space now had skylights, because when he’d asked Nicole if that was necessary for a workspace, she’d informed him Timmy preferred working with natural light whenever possible. So, yes, it was necessary to install skylights the first week of December. He wanted this space to be as much of a surprise as possible, and Nicole found it sweet, had called him to thank him personally for taking care of her son, looking out for him, making Armie flush uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to a mother figure being so….affectionate, or open with their emotions. But he wanted Timmy to be happy, to have a place his own, to be comfortable. 

Nicole had stopped by twice so far to see the progress, and also because, well--she was Timmy’s mother, the dominant who’d been in charge of him his whole life, and Armie wanted to make sure she knew he would be taken care of. She’d walked the transforming studio space, pointing out ideas for the new design, and Armie had taken notes. She’d suggested, once the seasons changed, putting in a balcony for him, somewhere he could paint outside without having to leave, and Armie emphasized that addition in his notes. He had balconies, of course--one on the main floor, leading out from the living room, and another in the master bedroom, but he wanted Timmy to have one of his own, a place of his own. Wanted him to have a space that he knew was _his_ , entirely, and when he said as much to Nicole, she smiled at him and cupped his cheek briefly, telling him in her soft, accented voice that she was very glad that they’d found each other.

He hadn’t picked a wall color for this space yet, and he studied the bare walls as he walked over the tarps, bare feet causing it to crinkle loudly in the silence. He thought that should be Timmy’s decision, and also he didn’t know if Timmy would want the walls to be painted a color--maybe plain white was more conducive to painting, he didn’t know. He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck, sighing. There were so many things he felt like he should know, things he should already be aware of with Timmy. And yes, they’d been spending all the time they could together, slowly moving his things over from his mom’s house, the items themselves sparking conversations ( _I didn’t know you played baseball,_ Armie had said, pulling a trophy out of a box, and then another, one eyebrow raised. Timmy had smiled and shrugged. _Varsity for three years, MVP for two. I’m good at it._ ) and playful disagreements ( _there is_ no way _gale is a stronger character than peeta_ Timmy had exclaimed when Armie commented on his Hunger Games books. _We’re fighting now, this is a fight._ ) and slightly uncomfortable discussions (Timmy had been looking for a place to store more books and had opened the door to the smaller master suite, the one outfitted with all of the items Armie had piled in the middle of the room to get rid of, toys and devices, cuffs still attached to a certain area of the wall, and he’d gone quiet, Armie taut and anxious behind him, before Timmy had snorted. _okay, then, Christian Grey,_ he’d said, and Armie had grabbed him from behind, dug his fingers into Timmy’s ribs until he shrieked, then shuddered at the feel of Armie’s erection pressing into him, going lax in arms that traveled down to Timmy’s own, straining against his jeans, and Armie sounded slightly smug. _Guess that makes you Ana, then_ ).

Timmy hadn’t asked about them then, but later, when he was aware again, curled up against Armie, bare skin pressed together, legs tangled, he drew absent shapes on Armie’s chest with elegant fingers, eventually tapping out a beat against Armie’s chest. “How many of those do you want to use with me?” he’d asked, eyes down on his hands, body tight against Armie’s, teeth worrying his lower lip. Armie had shifted, rubbing one thumb over Timmy’s lower lip until it escaped his teeth, tipping his head up so Armie could kiss him properly, licking over the abused flesh of Timmy’s lip until Timmy whimpered into his mouth, Armie petting over his back and sides, pressing fingers into his hip bones, pulling back to watch Timmy’s eyes begin to blur, and he lifted one hand, twining his fingers through Timmy’s curls.

“All of them,” he’d admitted quietly, and Timmy had hummed, nuzzling his hand, shifting to wiggle closer under the blankets. 

“M’kay,” he’d muttered, and Armie had laughed, kissing his forehead. “M’serious,” he’d added, frowning, and Armie had just dropped his head to kiss him again, drawing it out, appreciating how pliable Timmy got like this, long limbs limp in Armie’s hold, malleable and agreeable. 

“I’m serious too, baby, but some of that stuff, we have to work up to.” Timmy had nodded then, hooded eyes falling closed, blinking futilely against sleep. 

It had been almost a week since that moment, and the room was now empty, Armie thought, wandering out of the studio space and down to the second floor. He’d learned more about Timmy, yes, but still felt like maybe he was rushing things, like maybe….maybe he was being rash, maybe he needed to tone it down a little, go slower, remember this was Timmy’s first experience with _anything_ , and maybe….maybe, he admitted, running his hands over his face and turning back into the master suite, maybe he needed to go the fuck to sleep because it was two in the morning and he had meetings in the morning and he was overthinking everything, worrying too much.

He knew it felt right when he was with Timmy, he thought, slipping back into the bedroom and studying Timmy’s form, prone on the bed where he was sprawled on his stomach, one hand curled over onto Armie’s empty side of the bed. It felt _right_ , more right than anything he’d ever felt with anyone else, and maybe that was what was causing the anxiety. Not anything that had to do with the bonding itself, no, that he was _sure_ of, knew that it was what was meant for them. No, maybe his anxieties were because he wasn’t worried about the bonding. He knew that they belonged together, that they somehow had known each other from that first instant, and maybe….maybe since he wasn’t nervous about that part of it, he was searching for something to be nervous about, so he resorted to freaking out about not knowing Timmy’s favorite color or his favorite childhood movie, or any of the little details they were both still discovering about each other. 

The bonding felt so _right_ , he was worried maybe something else would go _wrong_.

He kept watch on Timmy for another moment, affection spreading through his chest, warming him from the inside out, studying the slope of Timmy’s cheekbones, the curve of his arm as it lay on Armie’s side of the bed, the long line of his spine, those artist’s hands, deceptively fragile-looking but incredibly strong, splayed out over the empty pillow next to him. Timmy shivered, and Armie moved forwards, tugging the rumpled quilt up over his back and shoulders, running one hand through Timmy’s hair before settling next to him in the bed, dragging the quilt over himself as well, smiling when he had to move Timmy’s arm for access to his pillow and the movement caused Timmy to grumble. 

He shifted until he was on his side, drawing Timmy closer to him, watching the way Timmy’s eyes blinked open sleepily, focusing on him for a second, warmth beaming from sleepy forest-green eyes, before Timmy’s eyes closed again and he wrapped his arm around Armie’s waist, face pressed against Armie’s throat. Armie wound one arm around Timmy’s shoulders, draped a leg over his hip, effectively wrapping Timmy up in him. Timmy let out a content hum, going still, and Armie listened to his breathing even out again, rubbing absent circles over his shoulders.

No, he wasn’t anxious about the bonding. He was worried things wouldn’t be done in time, that Timmy wouldn’t have a space to work in, that they way they sorted DVDs would clash (Timmy alphabetized his, Armie did them by genre, both baffled the other person). But he wasn’t worried about having Timmy in his life permanently, not when he fit so well, not when he filled voids Armie hadn’t even been aware had been present. He _knew_ Timmy, and Timmy knew him, and everything else, he thought, pressing an absent kiss to Timmy’s curls before closing his eyes, everything else was just extra.


	2. Without You I Am Color Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were close to the ceremony, but he wasn’t worried. Not when everything about it felt right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS ISN'T THE CHAPTER I MEANT TO WRITE!!!! INSTEAD THIS IS 2100 WORDS OF JUST. Well, you'll see. 
> 
> This is dedicated to the chalet-met fam, especially Gina, Dani, Brooke, and Amanda, who all did some weird shit for me in the Name Of Science for this chapter.
> 
> Thanks to Brooke for betaing this <3333

_Timothee_

He woke slowly, aware of the heavy weight of Armie’s leg over his hip, the brush of stubble against his shoulders, Armie’s hand splayed across his stomach, the span of it almost covering him entirely. He shifted, humming when Armie’s mouth moved to press behind his ear, at the nape of his neck under his hair, Armie’s hand sliding up, across his chest instead, blunt nails scraping over one nipple.Timmy hissed at the sensation, jolting into awareness as Armie’s laugh rumbled out, through his chest, against Timmy’s back, and he did it _again_ , making Timmy whine and shift, seeking any sort of friction, but Armie’s leg tightened over his hip, holding him in place. 

“Good morning,” the greeting was delivered against the shell of Timmy’s ear, Armie’s teeth nipping at his earlobe moments later, and Timmy gasped as those clever fingers rolled the taut bud of one nipple between them, hips jerking under the cage of Armie’s leg, his head tipping back against Armie’s shoulder. 

“You have meetings,” he managed, more breathless than he’d intended to sound, and Armie made a vague noise of assent behind him, switching his hand to Timmy’s other nipple, pinching harder this time, the sensation causing Timmy to buck into Armie’s hand, and he could _feel_ precome wetting the front of his boxers, the press of Armie’s erection against his ass, Armie’s mouth attached to the side of his throat, teeth worrying the skin there, and Timmy just shivered against the onslaught, eyes fluttering closed. 

Armie pressed open-mouthed kisses against Timmy’s neck after a moment, his hand sliding down over Timmy’s stomach, tracing circles around his navel, and Timmy let himself go, shuddered against the warmth spreading through him, the lightness taking over in his limbs, the feeling of being wrapped in gold-glittering spun sugar, everything outside of Armie behind him, Armie’s hand on him, ceasing to matter. “I do have meetings,” Armie said, slipping his fingers under the waistband of Timmy’s boxers, just barely brushing his fingers over the head of Timmy’s cock. “But I also have you, here, and this is better than meetings.” 

He could hear himself gasping as Armie rubbed his fingertips in circles around the head of his cock, whimpering low in his throat, and when Armie shifted, maneuvered Timmy so he was on his back, his hand retreating to brace on Timmy’s hip instead, he opened heavy eyes, blinking until he could focus on Armie, ready to _beg_ if he had to, to get those hands back on him, but before he could speak, Armie was raising his hand, fingers pausing centimeters from Timmy’s mouth. “Color, baby?” he asked, and Timmy swallowed, licked over his lower lip, tried to find his voice, remember what it felt like to _talk_ , and reached up to touch Armie’s wrist, heat sparking through his fingers.

“Green,” he whispered it, and Armie smiled at him, traced his fingers over Timmy’s mouth, and it took a moment for Timmy to realize that the lingering feeling of _wet_ was from _him_ , Armie was marking him with his own precome, and the thought made him moan, tip his head up to catch Armie’s fingers on his tongue, and he heard Armie swear, distantly, through the haze in his brain, felt those fingers slide into his mouth, over his tongue, obligingly opening his mouth wider when Armie slid a third finger in next to the others. 

Armie inhaled sharply, free hand coming to pet through Timmy’s hair, fist gently in the tangled curls, making Timmy moan around his fingers, eyes locking on Armie’s. “Look at you, my good boy,” Armie said softly, and Timmy whimpered, tongue curling against the fingers in his mouth. “Taking what I give you so well.” Armie drew his fingers out slowly, resting just the pads of his fingertips against Timmy’s tongue, before sliding them back in, and when he stopped, Timmy swallowed around them, making Armie swear again, voice rough when he spoke again. “Wider, baby, come on,” and Timmy felt his cock jerk in his boxers, tipped his head up and opened his mouth as wide as he could, exhaling in sharp whimpers when Armie slid his pinky finger in next to the others, the corners of his mouth stretching _just enough_ to make him feel full, and Timmy desperately suctioned his cheeks around the digits, working his tongue around them as best he could, teeth scraping over Armie’s knuckles, the sharp sensation of Armie tightening his curls in his free hand sending sparks down his spine, haze through his brain, and even though it felt as though he were taut, pulled tight, stretched beyond limits, he was limp under Armie’s form, pliant, willing to take _anything_.

Armie shifted, settled his weight more evenly over Timmy’s thighs, so _close_ to where Timmy needed friction the most, but nowhere near close enough when he attempted to shift his hips up, effectively pinned by Armie’s hand in his hair, his mouth, weight on the tops of his thighs, and Timmy whined. Armie hummed, taking his hand out of Timmy’s hair and tracing it down, over his cheeks, pressing his hand against the intrusion of his fingers in Timmy’s mouth, the obscene stretch of it, tracing them through the wetness seeping out of Timmy’s mouth as he desperately tried to suck on all four at once, failing and making a mess of himself, finally circling his throat gently, thumb pressing against the mark he’d made earlier. “Look at me, baby,” he said softly, and Timmy blinked, blurry vision focusing on Armie’s face, breaths coming sharply through his nose, and Armie smiled. “Good boy. God, you’re fucking gorgeous, Tim. Spread out for me, taking what I give you so well, such a good little sub.” 

Timmy _moaned_ at that, startled through the haze in his brain at how _good_ it felt to be called that, to be called that by _Armie_ , and he sucked harder around the fingers in his mouth, felt drool sliding down his chin, knew he was a mess, didn’t fucking _care_ , and Armie inhaled sharply. “That’s gonna be my cock soon,” he said, pressing his fingers deeper into Timmy’s mouth, making him gag a little around them before withdrawing, pulling them out until the widest part was stretching Timmy’s mouth open, letting him pant around Armie’s fingers, and in the next instant Armie was spreading them, making Timmy whine at the stretch around them, impossibly hard as Armie watched his hand, his eyes dark. “It’s going to be my cock filling up this pretty mouth, stretching you wide open. You want that, baby?” 

Timmy nodded, desperately, and Armie finally looked directly at him, lust gleaming in his eyes, the sharp flash of his smile. “That’s my good boy.” Armie finally withdrew his fingers completely from Timmy’s mouth, left him feeling open and empty and _messy_ , spit trailing down his chin and before he could _beg_ to be filled again, Armie had tugged down the front of his boxers, Timmy’s cock springing free, and Armie’s wet hand was wrapped around him, using Timmy’s saliva to wet the way for his hand, grip tight and unrelenting, and Timmy _keened_ , back arching up off the bed as Armie worked him quickly, just this side of _too much_ , and he felt tears sliding down his cheeks, oversensitive and overworked, and Armie was talking to him, praising him, and he felt his orgasm building, toes curling under the blankets, hips canting up erratically into Armie’s hand, and when he felt Armie’s hand tighten around the base of his erection he actually _sobbed_ , chest heaving and he opened his eyes when Armie touched his cheek gently, blinking to focus on him, eyelashes wet as he did, and Armie brushed his fingers under Timmy’s eyes, the gesture so affectionate it made his chest twist, made those golden strings of warmth engulf him again.

“Color?”

Timmy swallowed, took a shaky deep breath, replied “ _vert_ ,” making Armie smile and press his mouth gently to the corners of Timmy’s, his hand moving slowly on Timmy’s cock again, the sensation nearly overwhelming, causing Timmy to squirm under him. “When I come,” Armie said, kissing his temples, his nose, his cheeks, “you can come.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Timmy’s mouth and shifted back, Timmy panting and watching as he pulled his own cock out of his sleep pants, the head flushed, leaking, and his mouth opened at the sight, _wanting_ , and Armie laughed softly. “Patience, baby,” he said, reaching for the lube on the nightstand and dripping it over his cock before dropping the bottle and wrapping one huge hand around his cock and Timmy’s, working them both in the same rough, fast rhythm, the sensation causing Timmy’s back to arch off the bed, hands flying down to grip at Armie’s arm, his hip, any part of him he could touch, the need to come overwhelmed by the knowledge that Armie hadn’t yet, and he wasn’t allowed to yet, and he could hear himself panting harshly in the near-silence of the room, the slick sounds of Armie’s hand moving in counterpoint, and when he finally, _finally_ felt Armie come, felt the warmth spill onto his dick, his hip, he let himself go, fingers scrabbling for purchase in the sheets, Armie’s name falling repeatedly from his lips, the soft haze encompassing him as he came down, vaguely aware that Armie was nuzzling his temple, his jaw, murmuring reassurances in a low rumble.

Aware of Armie moving away, the barest flutter of panic rising in his chest before Armie was back, before Timmy was shivering against the wet sensation across his stomach and hips, wiping gently over his spent cock, his boxers being tugged off and the blankets pulled over him, Armie settling next to him in the bed, his arms a cocoon of additional warmth, and Timmy let himself float for a while, nuzzling absently at Armie’s collarbone, limbs heavy. He let Armie tip his head up, accepted the water held to his mouth, drank until his throat didn’t feel dry and he felt more centered, rested his head on the pillow again. Drifted off. 

When he opened his eyes again, Armie was playing with his hair, fingers gently untangling the curls as he scrolled through his phone with his free hand, and when Timmy squinted he could make out the stock reports, he thought. He shifted, and Armie turned to glance down at him, smiling when he saw Timmy was awake. “There you are,” he said, setting the phone down and tracing one finger down the bridge of Timmy’s nose, tapping his mouth gently. “How’re you feeling?”

Timmy hummed, wiggling his toes under the blanket and stretching his legs. “Good. That was definitely a better start to the morning than lonely coffee and bagels.” Armie laughed, tipping his chin up to kiss him softly, brushing his thumb over Timmy’s cheek.

“I’m glad. It wasn’t too much?” Timmy caught the worry in the tone, hidden well, and shifted to prop himself up on one elbow, reaching out to mimic Armie, one hand on his cheek, finger brushing over his cheekbone. 

“It wasn’t too much. I said green, didn’t I?”

“You did. In French, even.” Timmy huffed and rolled his eyes, and Armie laughed, kissing his forehead. “I like when you get fucked so thoroughly you forget how to speak English.”

Timmy felt himself flushing even as he squirmed a little out of pleasure, and he pushed at Armie’s shoulder, mock scowling. “Maybe I’m just indulging your weird French kink,” he said, and Armie grinned, catching his fingers and kissing the tips.

“You’re doing a good job of it, if that’s the case,” he said, leaning down to kiss Timmy again, softly, sweet, lingering over it until Timmy sighed against his mouth. “But now I do have meetings, and Saoirse is coming to help you finish getting your things. But I can probably find time before I leave to make omelets after I shower, if you get coffee started.”

Timmy smiled at him, affection blooming in his chest, a sense of complete _belonging_ spreading through him, satisfaction at how easy this was, how right it felt--sharing space, having breakfast, waking up to Armie not being able to get enough of him and vice versa. They were close to the ceremony, but he wasn’t worried. Not when everything about it felt right.

He leaned in, rubbing his cheek against Armie’s beard, enjoying the slight sting of it against his skin. “Go shower. I’ll make coffee.”


	3. Swore I'd Never Lose Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was ridiculous that he was scared about his mother meeting his submissive. He was thirty-three years old, he didn’t need to be scared of his mother at this point in his life. And yes, he was her head of household, and he knew she took that seriously, but she was still his _mother_ , and he still wanted her approval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting so close to the ceremony and the reveal of why Timmy is in the hospital I PROMISE. Thanks for being patient with me!! Also, I don't PERSONALLY like Dru Hammer in real life, so Armie's fictional mom doesn't have a name yet and is a much nicer, accepting person. Because he deserves that, damn it.

_Armie_

Armie flipped through the calendar on his desk, fingers of his free hand tapping out an absent rhythm on the wood beneath them. He had some things to rearrange, just a few meetings here and there, to make sure everything was cleared the day of the ceremony and the couple of days after that were traditionally spent alone by the newly bonded couple. He found himself weirdly grateful that Timmy’s birthday was so close to Christmas, because it made things easier for his work schedule, in some ways. The offices closed from Christmas Eve through January 2nd of the new year, although employees were still welcome to come in, get work done if they wished, schedule independent meetings, but Armie was never going to be his father--never going to demand that his people work themselves nearly to death. December 24th to January 2nd was a mandatory closing period for all offices, overseas and in the States, and regardless of his employees’ religious affiliations or celebrated holidays, those two weeks were always granted.

Which made him think, toggle over to the employee schedule on his computer, note the employees who had requested off for upcoming holidays or celebrations in their own religions as well. His father, he thought, teeth grating and shoulders tensing, had refused to even acknowledge the idea that people would want or need time off to celebrate anything other than Christian holidays, which was something else Armie had rectified once he’d taken over, and had made sure to pass on to the COO’s of the other branches of the Hammer Corporation. 

And that was not what he was here to focus on, he reminded himself, rolling his shoulders slowly, deliberately, circling his neck as well, making himself take slow, even breaths to release tension. He was here to clear his schedule, because they had--he looked at the calendar, felt himself tense again--six days until the bonding ceremony. December 21st was circled in red, with Timmy’s birthday on the 27th circled as well. The days in between were blank, left so intentionally, although Armie was planning on asking Timmy if he wanted to join Vik and Sherry for Christmas Eve, wondered if Timmy would see it as the official welcome into the family that it was.

His mother would be there as well, he knew, and although Timmy would meet Vik and Sherry at the ceremony, as they were standing in as witnesses for Armie’s side, he still didn’t know if his mother was planning on flying in earlier for the ceremony or not. He’d written to her, of course, to let her know he was going to be bonded, and he’d received a warm response, telling him she was pleased he finally found someone to settle down with, that she knew he would make a wonderful Dom, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about potentially coming to the ceremony.

And, he admitted, he hadn’t really asked, hadn’t pushed the matter further, because he was still nervous about having her there, his traditionalist mother who accepted her sons as the men they’d become, but who hadn’t met Timmy yet (Armie’s sarcastic, brilliant, temperamental darling), and he was a little nervous as to how she might react to him. Worried about what she might say to him about being a proper sub. Worried about how Timmy might react to the notion that he somehow wasn’t everything Armie had ever wanted without knowing it himself.

It was ridiculous that he was scared about his mother meeting his submissive. He was thirty-three years old, he didn’t need to be scared of his mother at this point in his life. And yes, he was her head of household, and he knew she took that seriously, but she was still his _mother_ , and he still wanted her approval. He knew he had it in the ways that counted, had known since the day he’d told her he was moving to New York with Viktor and had asked her to come and she’d said no, had told him that the two of them would become good men. Knew she was proud of him when they talked on their monthly video calls, when she smiled at him through the screen, listened when he told her about the work they were doing, the work _he_ was doing for submissive’s rights. He knew she didn’t really understand the latter, to some extent--he knew that she understood that it was important, but that she saw herself as removed from it. He wasn’t entirely sure if she supported it, but he knew that she knew it was important to him, so it mattered to her. So clearly, since Timmy was important to him, and mattered to him, logic would follow that Timmy would also matter to her.

And god, he was giving himself a headache with this train of thought. He rubbed his temples, frustrated. He had six days to finish hammering out the details of this thing, and he needed to get this part of it over with. He picked up his phone, crossing to his door and closing it, before hitting the contact button for the house in California. He paced as it rang, loosening the tie that suddenly felt too tight around his neck, and rolled his eyes at himself. When the line was answered, he smiled in automatic response at the cool, pleasant, faintly British voice on the other end.

“Hammer residence, how may I assist you?” He snorted at the question.

“Oh, come on, Marce,” he teased, catching the amused-yet-exasperated sigh on the other end of the line, the almost hidden huff of laughter. “I know you have caller ID, you’re really going to be formal with me?”

“It’s my position to be accomodating and formal, Master Armie, in more ways than one,” the response from the (Submissive) housekeeper came smoothly, a hint of teasing under it, and Armie laughed, fingers falling from his tie. “It’s good to hear your voice, though, however rude it may be at the moment.”

Armie settled on the arm of one of the chairs in the sitting area, idly kicking at the leg of the table in front of him. “Marcella, would I ever be rude to you? You’re my angel, you run a whole house and keep my mother in line--”

“Ah, yes, your angel, whom you _clearly_ cherish as evidenced by the incident from your senior year of high school--”

“That was fifteen years ago, oh my god--”

“Which I have never mentioned, not once,” Marcella continued, their voices overlapping, hers tinged with good humor. Armie rolled his eyes.

“You mention it to me at _least_ once every six months,” he muttered, and he heard her smile in her response.

“Well, yes, but how else am I supposed to also keep you in line? You’re still part of this household, are you not? And you told me, when you moved to New York, to run the household. So, head of house or not, I’m still in charge of you, sir.” Armie grinned into the phone, both sides of the line cheerfully silent for a moment.

“That is true,” he said finally, “and I’m glad it’s you who’s in charge of me, if anyone has to be.” 

“Damn right. Are you eating enough? There was a photo of you in the _Times_ a week or so ago, and you look too thin.” Armie huffed, and Marcella tsked. “That sounds like you might not be, and I know you’ve got a lot going on, with your bonding coming up, but you can’t be falling over at the ceremony, can you?”

“I promise I’m eating enough,” he replied, throat going a little dry when she mentioned the bonding. “Has mom said anything about the bonding? Aside from, you know, the letter she wrote in response to the email I sent you guys?”

“She’s mentioned it,” Marcella said, her tone carefully neutral, and Armie sighed. 

“Well, that bodes well,” he rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Is she home? Could I talk to her if she’s available?”

“She is home, and you can. Just remember, Armie, she is happy for you, but she’s a Traditionalist through and through. She knows you’re removed from that, that you grew apart from it, but it still stings for her, when things aren’t done the way she thinks they should be.” Before he could respond, the line clicked over to the gentle bells of the hold music, and he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Fuck.

_Fuck._

Of course she wasn’t really speaking to him about the ceremony, or letting him know if she was even interested in attending--to a Traditionalist, there were certain ways these things were supposed to be done, and Armie hadn’t done any of them. He was the head of the household, yes, the only Dominant in the family, but Traditionalist children were still supposed to present their bonding partners to their families in a certain way, follow a certain decorum. It hadn’t really been a problem with Sherry and Vik, he realized, the bells still trilling in his ears, because Sherry had had to ask for _his_ permission to court and be bonded to his brother, but she also wrote to their mother, ever the graceful and thoughtful Dominant, and had flown out to California with Viktor before their bonding ceremony so their mother could meet her. Sherry hadn’t been raised a Traditionalist, and knew Vik was removed from it, but she’d still gone through the steps.

And what was Armie doing? Bonding himself to a sub he’d been courting for a matter of weeks, entering his first and only serious bonding contract, and he hadn’t even bothered to FaceTime with his mother and Timmy at the same time.

He was a damn idiot. 

The bells finally stopped, his mother’s voice coming across the line in the beginning of a greeting, but he cut her off before she could get much of it out. “I’m an idiot, and I’m sorry,” he said, and paused a moment to make sure she was going to listen, and the contemplative silence on the other end of the line affirmed she was, so he continued. “I didn’t follow the protocols for this sort of thing, I didn’t even really introduce you to him properly, and I didn’t tell you about him until I sent you the email about the bonding--I could have at least _called_ about that part, and I’m doubly sorry for that. We’re just….” he trailed off, pushing up from the arm of the couch to pace the office, his mother’s patient silence encouraging him to continue. “We’re both so new to this, mom, neither of us has ever been in a serious contract, and this is his _first_ , and it has to be done before his birthday, which is only six days after the date we set, and he’s so much more than I thought he could be, or _anyone_ could be, for that matter, and I got so caught up in the details of everything that I completely forgot about the protocols, and I’m sorry.” He took a breath, snorting out a laugh. “I know you don’t expect me to follow the protocols, so I sound sort of like a babbling idiot, but I also know they’re important to _you_ , and I didn’t mean to show you any sort of slight by not introducing you at least over FaceTime, since he can’t really fly out to California to meet you in person before this happens, or by having the two of you talk in private, or whatever. His family’s not--like ours,” he finished, not wanting to say _his family’s not Traditional, they welcome their Submissive son with open arms and equality the same way they do their Dominant daughter, they don’t hide their Submissive children as though they’re something to be ashamed of and I don’t know how to tell him I’m ashamed of how I was raised, the ideals you still hold on to even though you’re trying, I didn’t want to scare him away…._

So he doesn’t say any of that. He just stops talking, finally, taking a deep breath and waiting for his mother to reply. Or maybe hang up. Or do _something_ , because now the silence is killing him.

“I accept the apology,” her voice finally came through, that calm, centered tone with the slight drawl, reminiscent of her childhood in the south, honeysuckle vines twining through her words. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose, my darling boy. I also never considered that this might be weighing on you this much, or have caused you such turmoil--and I don’t mean that negatively,” she added, anticipating his response. “Turmoil doesn’t have to be negative. You’re clearly going through a run of emotions about this, and I understand, now that you’ve talked to me. Which I wish you would have done sooner.”

“I know,” Armie said, rubbing one hand over his chin, feeling the rasp of his beard under his palm, the sensation steadying him. “I’m sorry.”

“So you’ve said, yes,” his mother replied, her tone amused. She took a breath, then said, “I’ve contacted the pilot about flying me to New York on December 18th, and I would appreciate it if you came here with him to escort me back. You know how I feel about flying.” He did know, knew she hated it, preferred to drive or take the train, booking private cars where she could watch the world pass her by, but the 18th was just three days before the ceremony, he’d have to stay overnight, wouldn’t be back until the 19th, that gave them two days….and then he realized this was a compromise, of sorts. She was coming to the ceremony, she was coming to meet Timmy, and all she was asking for in return was an escort. Armie smiled, nodded even though she couldn’t see him.

“I will be there with the pilot on the 18th, and we can fly back out first thing the morning of the 19th.”

He heard her smile in her response. “Thank you, Armie. Now, tell me about this painter of yours.” Armie squirmed a little where he stood, fiddling with his tie again. He both hated and was amazed that she could still make him feel like he was fifteen and getting grilled about who he was dating. But she just waited, patiently, for him to begin talking, and he sighed, settled on the couch, got comfortable.

“He sees the world in the most amazing ways,” he began.


	4. There's Nobody Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy rolled his eyes. “It’s twenty-four hours, Armie, I’m going to be fine. I have that meeting with the gallery people, Saoirse and I are going to get dinner, and I’m going to stay the night with her and Greta, who, _I know_ , is my emergency Dominant and whom I should contact if I have any problems.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE CHAPTER WHERE YOU FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENED TO TIMMY!!!!! IT ONLY TOOK!!!! SIX MONTHS!!!! thank you for your patience with me. also, thank you to everyone who found this story recently and was commenting on every chapter as you read it. i loved reading them, and that honestly gave me the motivation to continue this story. thank you so so much <3 
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING** description of physical assault!! the chapter starts with a flashback to it so if you want to SKIP IT ENTIRELY, search for "8 hours earlier" and start there, and then when you get to "when one of them spoke" you can SKIP to the next section, which begins with _Armie_. If you want a brief detail of what happened, I will put one in the end notes.
> 
> [Interlude](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16595507) is the part that immediately follows this one.

_Timothee_

God, it hurt. It _hurt_ , and he heard, vaguely, whimpering, the sounds of voices ringing in his ears, tasted the tang of blood bitter in the back of his throat. Realized, dimly, that the whimpering was him, the pain searing through his senses was causing him to make those noises, and when he blinked the world wavered, his eyesight stung red, and he felt himself retch, the tang of vomit joining the cacophony of sensation overwhelming him. Another sharp pain in his side as a result, raw shriek torn from his lungs, and the sound of feet approaching, fast, Saoirse’s lilt tearing through the sirens screaming through the air, shouting his name and cursing.

Gentle hands on his face, Sersh’s perfume cutting through the puke and blood, her fingers trembling over his closed eyes. _You’re alright, darling,_ he heard dimly, struggling for breath. _You stay with me, you’re alright._

Then there was nothing.

**8 hours earlier**

“And you know where the emergency numbers, are, right?” Armie ran one hand through his hair, glancing around the kitchen in a daze, and Timmy handed over the keys Armie had just put in the fruit bowl, of all places. He’d never seen the Dominant in such a distracted state, and it would be more amusing if he weren’t so anxious about Armie going to fetch his _mother_ and bring her back to meet him, to bring her to the ceremony, and if it weren’t for the fact that Armie was also anxious about it. Hence, keys in fruit bowl. Armie took the keys and smiled at him, tugging him closer to kiss him, winding one arm around Timmy’s waist until he melted against the taller man, humming contentedly as Armie nipped at his lower lip. “You’re an angel,” Armie proclaimed, pulling back slightly and studying Timmy. “You sure you’ll be alright?”

Timmy rolled his eyes. “It’s twenty-four hours, Armie, I’m going to be fine. I have that meeting with the gallery people, Saoirse and I are going to get dinner, and I’m going to stay the night with her and Greta, who, _I know_ , is my emergency Dominant and whom I should contact if I have any problems.” He smiled brightly at Armie, who just reached up and tugged one curl, smile escaping him despite his best efforts to remain stern.

“Brat.”

“I am, yes, and you’re going to be _late_ ,” Timmy said, pulling him down to kiss him once more, wrapping both arms around him in a hug, pressing his face into Armie’s neck. “I’m going to be okay. It’s just one day, and I wish I could come, but this gallery meeting--”

“Hey,” Armie said, petting through his curls, making Timmy sigh. “I know it’s important, and I know they rescheduled it last minute because of shit you can’t control. I’m not interfering with your career, kid.” Timmy smiled against his neck, and Armie tugged his curls gently. “Doesn’t mean I won’t worry about you while I’m gone.”

“You don’t have to,” Timmy informed him, tipping his head back to peer up at him. “I managed for twenty-odd years before you, you know. Although I do kind of like that you worry about me. It’s…nice.” Armie smiled, then glanced at the clock over the mantel and swore.

“Late,” he said, kissing Timmy swiftly once more before gathering his suitcase. “Call me if you need anything, I mean it--”

“I know,” Timmy said, laughing, pushing at him. “ _Go_ , or I’m calling your mother and telling her you couldn’t manage to be on time for a _private plane_.” Armie grinned at him, blinding, and swept out the door. In the silence that followed, Timmy blew out a breath and looked around the penthouse, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He’d never spent time in it alone before--not a considerable amount of time, anyways--and knowing that Armie wasn’t just at work, but was _gone_ , was making him feel a little out of place. He’d moved in nearly completely, all his things tucked neatly away in the space Armie had made for him, the only things needing moving yet his painting supplies. Armie had been very adamant that those be the last things moved in, and Timmy figured it was because he was trying to make enough space for all the things he’d need to work properly.

This was, technically, his home--he couldn’t have his name on the deed, of course, but it was his home, that he shared with the man he was about to be bonded to, and he shouldn’t feel so ridiculously weird and out of place without Armie in it, and yet. He stood where he was for a minute longer, just to get used to the silence, before heading upstairs.

He showered, dressing a little more formally than he normally would--slacks instead of jeans, a heavier winter coat instead of layering hoodies under his favored peacoat--before grabbing his bag and his own keys and heading out, pressing one finger over the bracelet on his wrist. In a few days, he thought as he headed out into the city, gritting his teeth against the bracing wind, it wouldn’t be a bracelet but a collar. He reached one hand up to touch his throat over his scarf, imagining what it would feel like to have a different weight there, something meaningful that showed the world he belonged to someone, he was….cherished, cared for. Precious, in a way. He still wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the collar, about wearing it in public, but every time he got nervous about it he thought about Armie’s eyes on him, how protected he felt with one arm draped over his shoulders, how it would feel to have that sense of _belonging_ all the time, with one simple strip of leather. 

In those moments, he knew he was ready for it. But there were others where he was still nervous, which was why he was getting dinner with Saoirse before going to the house she shared with Greta. He needed another Submissive’s opinion on things, another Submissive who also fought for Submissive’s rights, but was bonded happily. One who found a way to co-exist as both. He was so scared of losing part of himself when he put the collar on, but Saoirse said it had been like finding part of herself more than anything else, and that was what he was interested in. What was this part of himself that he didn’t know yet? What part of him would change once that collar was clasped around his neck, once he and Armie were officially bonded, officially a pair? What would change and what wouldn’t? 

And for fuck’s sake, why was he overthinking this at every chance he got? 

He sighed, rolling his shoulders to lose the tension he’d created. It was going to be fine. The more he thought about it the more he knew what he was anxious about was the ceremony, the….formality of it all, not about what would happen after. He wasn’t anxious about waking up wrapped in strong arms with Armie snoring lightly against his neck, about coffee-flavored kisses and Armie reminding him to stay warm when it was snowing, about strong fingers threaded through his as they walked, steering him gently away from other pedestrians because he was so caught up in what he was talking about. He wasn’t nervous about the life that would follow the ceremony, and maybe, he realized, stopping in front of the gallery, that was why he was anxious in the first place. Because he _wasn’t_ worried about his life with Armie, not at all, but he was worried about the pomp and circumstance of it all, so maybe he was just looking for things to be nervous about. Looking for any reason something might go wrong. 

Well, he decided, stepping inside and stomping off his boots on the mat, unwinding his scarf as he headed to the offices, that was just stupid. And he was going to do his best to stop, starting immediately. 

He met with the gallery owner, walked through the remaining pieces in the exhibit, talked about what pieces he might have to replace the ones that had sold, the lighting changes they wanted to make in the main room, spent nearly two hours going over logistics and plans and changes before heading out and uptown, towards Armie’s building. He wanted to get some work done on one of the murals in the conference rooms, and to see how construction was coming along on another, in case he needed to make changes, and Saoirse was going to meet him there for dinner.

Timmy smiled at Armie’s admin when he arrived, letting himself into Armie’s office and retrieving the change of clothes he’d started leaving there for when he worked on the murals, paint-splattered jeans and shirt, and changed quickly before heading upstairs.

He worked for the better part of the afternoon, losing himself in the swirls of color, the blending of shadow and light against the natural light filtering in the windows, humming along absently to the music blaring through headphones. When he finally stopped, checked the time, he swore under his breath. He’d worked so long he was almost going to be late if he didn’t stop, and so he stepped back, admired the work coming to life, the forest scene with hidden touches here and there, and went off to clean his brushes and himself, changing back into slacks and sweater and pushing his curls out of his eyes with damp hands.

He gathered his things and headed down to security, knocking on the observation room door once he’d arrived, and Greta opened it, grinning at him. “Hello, tiny Tim,” she greeted him, her gun flashing out from under her jacket when she moved. “Saoirse asked me to inform you that she’s peeing, and she’ll meet you at the main doors.” He grinned, rolling his eyes. 

“She could have just texted me that,” he said, and Greta shrugged. 

“She could have, but I also wanted to ask if you have objections to watching horror movies and eating obscene amounts of licorice with us once the two of you are done with dinner, because I really want to watch Black Christmas even though it’s terrible.” Timmy snorted.

“That’s sure to get us in the holiday spirit, and no, I don’t mind horror movies or licorice, so I’m in, if that’s the plan.” Greta smiled at him.

“Excellent. I’ll pick you up from dinner, if you want, or you can hail a cab home, either one. Just let me know.” She frowned, holding up one finger as she pressed her other fingers against the earpiece she was wearing. “Duty calls,” she said, a moment later, easing out of the room entirely. “Someone’s making a ruckus at the west entrance, so it’s a good thing you’re meeting at the main doors. I’ll walk up with you.”

He was about to protest that he didn’t need an escort, but then realized that maybe this was Greta’s way of being Dominant--subtle escorts, quiet presence of security and safety, and instead told her about the mural progress as they walked, answering the couple of questions she posed. She split at the main doors, reminding him that she’d pick them up if they called, and he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket as he stepped outside and slightly away from the doors, patting down his others to find his lighter. He’d just managed to get one lit and taken the first drag when he saw the men approaching him. He moved slightly more to the side, to let them pass, but the closer they got, the faster they moved, and his gut turned over, miserable in anxiety. He carefully dropped the cigarette, stepping on it to extinguish it, and took a couple steps closer to the main door, when one of them spoke.

“You think you can just fuck the boss and get us fired, sub?” Timmy blinked against the dimming light, and swallowed hard. It was the men who’d bothered him, weeks ago, the ones Armie had stopped, had reported. Timmy took another step towards the door, but they’d moved even closer, within arm’s reach, and he set his jaw.

“I didn’t get you fired,” he said, tone carefully neutral, trying to keep his back to the wall, to not let them get on all sides of him, and they laughed, the sound grating on his nerves. 

“Your actions got us fired, you little shit,” another said, casually swinging a short length of pipe in one hand, and Timmy felt his mouth go dry. “Acting like you’re fucking high and mighty, like _painting_ makes you better than us. We oughta show you what a real Dominant can give you.” Timmy shook his head, dropping his bag and preparing to bolt, when one shoved him from behind.

“Little punk,” that one said when he stumbled forwards, catching himself roughly on the brick of the wall, knuckles scraping against it and stinging. “Couldn’t just accept the offer the first time, could you?”

Timmy thought for a split-second. He could yell, which didn’t guarantee anything, or he could fight back. The one in front of him shoved him, and he didn’t even think about it, he just swung, fist connecting solidly with the jaw of the man in front of him. He got one more hit in, connecting with the one on his left as he lunged, trying to break out of the circle, before they shoved him back, the pipe connecting with the side of his head, stars breaking out in front of his eyes. 

Another one of them got him in the stomach, another crack of the pipe over his back, and he was on his knees, blinking back blood. A kick landed on his ribs, knocking him sideways, and the pipe against his jaw this time, singing pain through his skull again, and one of them grabbed for his arms. 

“He’s an artist,” he heard dimly, and he struggled, kicking out and clawing at anything he could reach. “Get his hands!” He curled his fingers into fists, howling when the pipe smashed against them, tears escaping unbidden, blood coughed up from the kick to his stomach, the hit against his kidneys, and he lost track of time and stopped fighting back, the sirens barely distinguishable from the screaming in his head, and when Saoirse’s hands touched his face, he was barely holding on, but Saoirse meant safety, and he let himself go.

_Armie_

He was sitting in the parlor, showing his mother pictures of Timmy, when a phone rang. He paused, looking expectantly at his mother, but she shrugged.

“It isn’t mine, darling,” she said, and he peered at his own phone, puzzled for a moment, before he remembered, and felt the blood drain from his face.

He’d received the emergency phone for Timmy the day before. That was the phone for alerting him of problems with Timmy, and he pushed to his feet, stumbling over them to his suit jacket, pulling the phone out and swiping to answer it.

“Before you say anything, you need to know he’s alive,” Greta’s voice came over the other line, shaky, loud with sirens in the background, and he saw his mother push to stand out of the corner of his eye as his legs gave out and he landed on the edge of the couch with a thud. “But it’s bad, and you need to come home.” His mother held out a hand, and he gripped it, tight. 

“Call Viktor,” he managed to get out, “and tell him I’ll be in New York in six hours. H-have him meet me at the airport. What happened?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here,” she said, and he heard the faint sound of Saoirse calling to her in the background. “I have to go, okay, they’re transporting him, but he’s _alive_ and I need you to get here.” She disconnected, and Armie stared at the phone before turning to his mother, and his eyes must have conveyed all his dismay, his fear, because she folded herself around him in one of her rare hugs, and he clung to her. 

“We have to go,” he said. “I’m sorry, w-we have to go.”

“I’m already packed,” she replied, rubbing his back. “I’ll tell Marcella to ready the plane.”

All he could do was nod as she walked away, hands shaking on the phone he was still holding.

He’d left Timmy, and something bad had happened. His worst-case scenario had come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the assault: the men that Armie fired way back in the beginning of this story return to the building and beat Timmy up for getting them fired, even though their own assholery got them fired!! They also break one of his hands, because they know he's an artist, which is important for later. 
> 
> i'm sweetteatimmychalamet on tumblr but uhh i'm not really on tumblr anymore.


	5. When I'm Looking Up at You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi thank you all so so much for your patience!!! A lot has been going on, and I started writing this like a month and a half ago and then uhhh everything happened. But now it's settled down and tbh life is in a more stable rhythm so updates should be more frequent again!! Thank y'all so much for your continued support of this story. I really love this fandom so much, and I really love and appreciate y'all so so much.

_Armie_

_Timmy stood in front of him on a frozen lake, feet bare against the ice, toes curling and uncurling against the sensation, dressed only in black slacks and a strip of leather around his throat, a small diamond resting in the hollow of his throat. Armie couldn’t stop staring at him. He should have been cold, but even though he could see his own breath escaping in puffs, he felt warm. Timmy’s arms were covered in goosebumps, but he made no move to warm himself, instead just standing on the ice, smiling at Armie._

_“You just going to stay over there?” he asked, and Armie looked down to see himself standing on snowy shores, perhaps two arm’s lengths away, but still not next to Timmy, where he belonged. He laughed, and took a step forwards, then another, but the ice crackled menacingly under his shoes, and he stopped. “It does that sometimes,” Timmy said nonchalantly, and Armie looked up to see him spinning a slow circle, arms out to his sides, head tipped up to the grey sky. “You just have to be more careful where you step.” Armie frowned, and tried stepping to the left. The ice held his weight, and Timmy smiled at him. “Now you’ve got it.” Armie took another step, then another, and Timmy was only an arm’s length away now, reaching out with spinning fingertips for him, and Armie stretched out his hand--_

A shrill beeping interrupted his dreaming, startling him into wakefulness, and he jerked upright, ignoring the twinge in his neck, the protest of his back from sleeping hunched over in a too-small hospital chair. His hand was still entwined with Timmy’s, but one of the monitors connected to his boy was beeping, setting off an alarming amount of noise, and Armie rubbed one hand over his face as a nurse hurried in, clipboard in hand. 

“I need you to move back, Mr. Hammer,” he said, and Armie swallowed, shifting back and out of the way, tucking his hands into his lap, feeling empty without the pressure of Timmy’s hand in his. The nurse checked the machine, checked Timmy’s IV, and frowned, sighing, before turning to Armie. “I’m not going to bullshit you,” he said, tucking the clipboard under his arm. “This is monitoring his internal injuries, and it’s not going well. We’re going to need to take him in for another surgery, most likely. I need you to go back to the waiting room.” Armie pushed to his feet, shaking his head.

“No, he--they said he was stable,” he protested, looking at Timmy, wrapped in all those bandages, tubes protruding from every available inch of skin.

“He was, yes,” the nurse said, not unkindly. “But internal injuries are difficult. We just need to take him in for more scans to make sure he’s not bleeding again. We need you to go to the waiting room.” He waited a beat, then added, “everyone is still there. You won’t be alone.”

Armie struggled with himself, the need to stay and protect Timmy being outweighed by the need to make sure he was going to heal, and he nodded, bending to brush his lips gently over Timmy’s bandaged head. “I’m right outside,” he said softly, not even knowing if Timmy could hear him or not, but needing him to know he wasn’t leaving.

He gathered his coat and headed for the door, stepping to one side to allow the doctor and residents trailing her step into the room, and he headed for the waiting room feeling nauseated. The nurse was right, though--Saoirse was curled up in a chair with Greta’s coat covering her, dozing, while Greta studied her tablet in the chair next to her, one hand resting on Saoirse’s back. His mother and Viktor were still in attendance as well, and he saw Sherry sitting with Viktor, talking to him in low tones. When he stepped into the room, their eyes turned to him, and Sherry stood, crossing to him quickly and hugging him tightly, her small frame offering support, strength, love. He wrapped his arms around her in return and swayed slightly, closing his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, sweet Georgia peach accent weaving through the words. “Vik was filling me in, he says he’s stable?”

“He was,” Armie said, drawing back and rubbing his hands over his face again. “Some alarms just went off, they’re worried about internal bleeding. They’re doing more scans right now.” Sherry rubbed his arm comfortingly. 

“He sounds like a fighter,” she said, “he’ll be okay.” Armie nodded, trying to smile, trying to keep himself from completely falling apart in front of everyone he knew, and Sherry drew him gently over to the chairs, settling him next to Greta.

“Paparazzi are outside,” she said, cutting her eyes over to him and showing him her tablet, the headlines already blaring out at him: _Up-and-coming artist Timothee Chalamet attacked on street_ , _Armie Hammer’s intended Submissive brutally attacked outside of Hammer Industries_.

He huffed out a breath, dropping his head into his hands. “Great,” he muttered, and Vik leaned over, handing him another tablet.

“I’ve been drafting an official statement,” he said as Armie took the tablet, scanning the words, blinking a few times to focus on them. It was standard, he supposed, thanking people for their concern, asking for their privacy, but one sentence stopped him. _Those responsible are already in custody.”_ He looked up at Vik.

“They’ve got the bastards who did this?” he asked, heat pooling low in his chest, the worry for Timmy slowly pushed aside by the simmering rage finally coming to a head. Viktor nodded, took the tablet back.

“Wasn’t hard to. Greta looked over the footage with me. Your boy’s smart--he moved out of view of the cameras when he exited the building, heading to the smoking area it looked like. But then he’s back in view not a minute later, backing towards the doors. We’ve got two of their faces, clear as day, and the third, well.” He inclined his head towards Greta, who shrugged. 

“Saoirse was going outside to meet Timmy, and she screamed for someone to call 911. I’d just received the page from the monitor room that there was an altercation at the front doors--I was walking Timmy there, but then got that call about the west entrance, which turned out to be a ruse to draw security’s attention there. So Saoirse yelled for them to call 911, then just ran out and at them. The cops were already on their way--a good Samaritan saw what was happening and had called them already. When they saw cops, they ran, but that third one thought he could get one over on my girl. She kicked him in the balls, pepper sprayed him in the face.” Armie caught the pride in her voice as she stroked one hand over Saoirse’s hair as the Submissive slept. “He was down for the count. Cops rounded up the other two about three blocks away.”

Armie huffed out a laugh, rubbing his eyes. “I’m going to have to thank her for more than just staying with him, then,” he said, fisting his hands in his hair before dropping them to his lap. “Do we know who they are?”

“Former construction workers,” Greta replied, tapping on her tablet before handing it over to him. “These three.” Armie took the tablet, studied the images, and felt everything hot in him, the rage coming to a boil, just go cold, ice forming on top of all that heat, and he felt Vik lay a hand on his leg, almost in a warning.

“These are the ones I reprimanded,” he said, and he could _hear_ the fury tight in his throat, his words clipped. “They’ve already tried fucking with Timmy once before. They were reprimanded, and fired from the job site.” He looked over at Vik, saw the clench of his brother’s jaw, the frown on his wife’s face as she reached over and gripped Viktor’s free hand. “They did this to get back at _me_ for telling them to leave him alone. They harassed him once, and that wasn’t enough.” He handed Greta the tablet, shoving to his feet, Vik’s hand falling off his knee.

“Armand,” his mother finally piped up, and he turned to look at her, fists clenched at his sides. “You cannot go running off after these men. Timothee needs you here, and while I’m sure it would make an admirable headline, what with you defending his honor, they assaulted him and were caught on tape. You’ll press charges, and they’ll be dealt with the proper way.” Her voice was calm, but he saw her hands shake, just a little, in her lap, and looked back over at Sherry gripping Vik’s hand, thought about all the times that the two people he loved more than anything must have been threatened or intimidated just for being Submissive, and heaved out a sigh. 

“You’re right, mom,” he said, crossing to sit with her, taking one of her hands in his and leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I’m just….I’m really scared,” he admitted quietly, the words cut off, choked. He knew his father wasn’t here to berate him, knew his feelings weren’t a sign of weakness, but admitting it to his mother was almost as hard. She patted his hand, though, squeezed gently.

“I know you are, darling,” she said. “So we’ll sit here, and we’ll wait, and when he’s awake you’ll go see him.” Armie exhaled heavily, feeling as though all air were draining out of him, and nodded. He knew she was right--going off and ripping the assholes who did this to Timmy limb from limb wasn’t reasonable, wasn’t logical, would only hurt their case. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to--didn’t want to leave the hospital, the smothering sickly smell of it, go and make them sorry they’d ever even looked at Timmy to begin with, didn’t mean that he stopped wanting them to know the pain and fear that Timmy must have felt. It didn’t mean he stopped wanting to hurt them the way they’d hurt Timmy, and the enormity of that emotion scared him almost as much as the image of Timmy lying pale and bandaged in a hospital bed. 

They sat in silence for a while, Greta and Viktor working on their respective tablets, Saoirse sleeping, and Sherry moving away once to check in on Armie’s niece. Armie was about to get up and demand a doctor talk to him when he heard someone coming down the hallway, and he shifted, expecting Timmy’s doctor.

What he saw, however, was a tall, slender brunette with her hair scooped back into a ponytail and dark, watchful eyes. He could see the line of her shoulder holster under her jacket, then noticed the badge clipped to her belt. The man he assumed was her partner was only a step behind her, gun worn on his hip, badge shining next to it. Armie had expected cops, but not so soon, and not while Timmy was still….still unstable.

Viktor stood, ever the lawyer, and crossed to them, extending his hand, palm up. The brunette quirked a smile at that, and clasped his hand instead, shaking it.

“No need for the formality with me,” she said, glancing at the group of them. “I’m baseline, so you’re not breaking any rules just shaking. I’m Detective Chambers, with the SSVU, and this is my partner, Detective Delli Santi.” Armie squeezed his mother’s hand. If they’d sent the Submissive’s Special Victims Unit, then the cops were taking this seriously. He pushed to stand, crossing to his brother and the detectives.

“I’m Viktor Hammer, I represent Hammer Corporation,” Vik was saying, and he turned to Armie, who offered his hand. “My brother, Armie.” Detective Chambers’ handshake was firm, businesslike, and when Armie offered his hand to Detective Delli Santi, he received a hand, palm up, in return. 

“She’s baseline, I’m Submissive,” he said, smiling a little, and Armie shook his head, gripping the other man’s hand and shaking.

“Doesn’t matter to me. You’re helping figure out who did this to Timmy, so as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters,” he said, and he caught Detective Chambers’ crooked, quirked up smile again.

“We’re sorry to intrude,” she said, “especially because we know this must be difficult for you all. We heard that Timothee isn’t available to speak with yet, but if the rest of you wouldn’t mind giving statements, it would be appreciated. Since you’re all in one place, we thought coming to you would be easiest.” Viktor nodded, glancing at Greta and Armie.

“I know they don’t need a lawyer present,” he said, “but since I’m here I’d like to sit in.” Detective Chambers nodded.

“I don’t have a problem with that,” she said, “and we can go in whichever order you’d like.” Viktor turned to Greta, but Armie caught movement from the hall, and the world narrowed down as Timmy’s doctor stepped into the room.

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” She locked eyes with Armie. “His internal injuries have been stabilized, and he’s showing signs of wakefulness. If you’d like to come with me, I think having you there when he wakes up would be good for him.” Armie felt his breath catch in his throat, above the mix of relief and joy, below the tears lodged there suddenly, and he nodded, not trusting his voice. The doctor smiled. “I’ll update you on his condition as we walk,” she said, and Armie stepped forwards to follow her before remembering the detectives, and he turned.

Detective Delli Santi waved him on. “Go see him. We’ll be fine here, and we’ll talk to you once he’s awake.” Armie nodded again, falling into step behind the doctor, listening to her talk about the damage to Timmy’s kidneys, how they’d managed to get the swelling down, how the surgery they’d had to do when he’d first been admitted on his other injuries remained stable, how he had a concussion, might be confused, disoriented, to go slow with him, and Armie just kept nodding. The doctor stopped outside Timmy’s door. “Talking to him might help,” she said, patting Armie’s shoulder. “Recovery from this will be a process, but talking to him will help him know he’s not alone, not right now.” She smiled again and turned away.

It was almost too much, he thought, turning into Timmy’s room and feeling his heart skip at the sight of Timmy too pale and vulnerable in the bed. It was almost too much, but he would be with Timmy every step of the way. He lowered himself into the chair by Timmy’s bed again, taking his good hand and holding it gently.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “I’ve got you. You can stay asleep for a while longer if you need to, but I’m here whenever you feel like coming back. I’m not going anywhere.” He continued to talk for a few minutes, whatever came into his head--how Vik did a good Draco Malfoy impression, how his mother was looking forwards to meeting him, the fierce pride in Greta’s eyes as she talked about Saoirse. 

He was about to begin retelling Harry Potter himself when he felt Timmy’s fingers twitch in his, and he went absolutely still, holding his breath until he felt another twitch, more like a squeeze this time, saw Timmy’s eyes flutter.

“Hey there, baby,” he said softly, heart thudding precariously in his chest, feeling as though it was about to fall right at Timmy’s feet. “I’m right here, you can come back. You’re safe now, baby. I’ve got you.” He felt the hot press of tears behind his eyes again as Timmy’s fingers tightened on his again, as he watched the dark sweep of Timmy’s eyelashes move against his cheeks until finally, _finally_ , his eyes opened, that glorious forest-green blurred from pain and medication, Timmy blinking against the harsh lights as he focused on Armie’s face. 

Armie brought Timmy’s good hand to his cheek, holding their joined hands there for a moment before kissing the back of his hand. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said softly, and he watched Timmy’s eyes fill, tears spilling over onto his cheeks, even as he knew he was blinking back tears of his own. “I’ve got you, you’re okay.” He leaned down, rested his forehead gently against Timmy’s bandaged one, felt Timmy gripping his hand tightly, the shaky exhale of Timmy’s sobs as he held on for dear life, and let himself let go of everything else. Timmy was awake, and right now, that was all that mattered.


End file.
